You can ask the funeral director to come later if you want more time with the body. In the sunlight, I see my father’s penciled drafts flutter on the garage floor. An archivist needs to assess documentary finds as a window into the past his silenc’d course, and with the thick night bound I remember splashing in the metal paddling pool when I looked up and saw my father’s face was wet with tears.
He was on a lawn chair, and I remember that his stillness kept me silent too. You’ll need to register the death before you can use the ‘Tell Us Once’ service decking their silent orbs with light The pent fumes make me cough. Many forms of communication do not result in documentary evidence. Part of me thinks the correct thing to do would be to rent a huge dumpster and just throw it all away.
An optimistic part of me thinks I can skim through items. I remember how the air glimmered with the bugs we used to have. Is the receipt the only evidence left, made precious by its rarity? A will is legally binding, except for the funeral instructions. I rub the crack in a photograph that shows my father as a child, a smile of fierce effort on his blurred face where stov’d in silence he may sleep
and wheresoe’er thy silent relics keep My back is also seriously hurting after combing through boxes. I feel the papers strain against the plastic as I heave the bags into the rusted paddling pool. I remember when I waved my hand to brush away a fly, he startled. Try not to feel pressured into paying for a funeral you can’t afford. By themselves, these fleeting items provide little more than evidence of a random communication.
But in a wider context they can serve as proof I’ll seek each silent path where we Did walk You can only arrange for the cremation after you’ve received the death certificate. I do like the mementos but I just don’t know how worth it the effort all is. But I remember he kept his gaze trained on the crabgrass. In the metal tub, the papers give off a dusty tang.
For a moment, I can’t hear the highway traffic. The vast majority of society’s communications are never documented. I remember then he brushed his face and forced a smile and met my eyes a silent, unseen sorrow doth best please I don’t have the money to pay a company. You may go into shock or feel numb.
You may feel disbelief. I strike a match and let it fall. A major chunk of everything is straight garbage. The absence of records does not mean that the ideas never existed, only that they have left no evidence the stars shine in the silent I remember how I didn’t smile back, but I stretched out my arms, and he rose to lift me out of the low pool.